07-20-2021, 09:02 PM
“I can see the hunger in your eyes. Come on! You know you want to.”
It was some sort of magic. She could feel the effects of it tugging on the periphery of her mind even as the massive, horned demon tilted his head--exposing the thick muscles of his flesh and the evident jugular beneath the mass of his wild hair.
She did want to. There had not been a single waking moment since her transition that the Hunger had not gnawed relentlessly at the edges of her psyche, clawing equally at her mind and body in an endless attempt to urge the mage into action.
Even freshly fed, the Hunger didn’t leave. It became tolerable--a silent growl instead of an agonizing rumble--but it had been nearly 24 hours since she had last supped on the stores of blood she had carefully preserved.
Every splatter of spilled blood from a fallen enemy.
The film of red ichor smeared across the floor in the flagellation chamber they had just passed.
The river of gore that had poured from the massive serpent that had fallen in the river and tainted the running waters crimson.
Even in a state of exhaustion, none of it had escaped her notice--and it fueled the ever-present, silent war between her own decorum and the instinctual urges that churned and writhed like a thousand furious snakes.
The pressure of magic receded, unable to secure a hold on her mind, and Velameestra felt her dark lips curve into a smile that displayed the lengthening fangs that had started to urge her mouth apart.
“If you’re offering.”
It was a threat.
A frustrated curse had barely left the satyr’s mouth before two rapid-fire shots from Zap brought the demon to his knees--the humorous irony of the dwarf artificer’s quip not fully recognized by the arcanist as the dwarf was quickly scooped up by Tol’vas and the massive wolf propelled both him and Uther in pursuit of the charging Arthas and the rest of the satyrs.
Vel registered Elissa’s run by as well, her magenta-hued eyes flickering to the retreating form of the half-elf before the wild cackling of the dying demon drew her focus back to the thick, green blood that was dripping across his flesh and into his wild fur.
The sin’dorei have already done studies on this, she reminded herself, her eyes fixed on the fiend’s throat. About feeding on demons.
A mirthless chuff hummed in the back of her throat.
No lasting effects.
The demon’s taunt had been a mistake.
As the satyr started to fall backwards, the vampyr leapt on him, one hand still clasped around the hilt of her sword as the other grabbed his hair, wrenched his head to the side, and drove his throat into her waiting fangs.
It was like a shot of adrenaline--the thick, green ichor of the satyr’s blood burning like a drink that was too hot, but simultaneously as refreshing as water in the midst of a desert. She felt it reach her heart, spurning the organ into beating harder and harder, the cuts and scrapes in her flesh mending with the introduction of the new vitae.
What was it the satyrs had been called?
C̶o̴r̸r̶u̷p̶t̷e̸r̶s̶.̷
Ď̴̡̟̜͘e̸̥̔f̸͎̦̺͔͖́̊͝͝į̷̰̻̽̋́̂͐̏̈́̾̈̍͘l̸̡̦̪̗̹̺͇̱̝͉̻̼͕̆e̸̢̬̹͓͙̭̳̱̳̼͂̀̃͒̏̂͒͗͋̑͘̕͜ř̷̙̙͎͖̾̔͐͠ś̶̛̜̲̲͍̆̏̓̋͊̍̅͌̕͠
A p̷̪̱̟̓̉e̵̩̙̙͚̱̳͎͌͒̋̀̐̂͊̕͘s̸̯̪͔̩̤͓̫̲̅͂͗t̵̡̛̥̹̱̭͙̠̘̘̫̔̀̈̽̃̔̓͗́̂̎̚ị̸̑́̓̕l̷̼̋́̇͗̓̆̾i̴͓̯̲̭͈̩͓̞͂̑̿̀̋̈́̽̆̒ē̷̘͈͇͆͜͝ň̶͖͓̠̪̫̜̫̍̇͐̓͝ͅċ̷̠̾e̶̺̬̫͌̒̏̆̎̓͊̌ that had started to strangle and twist a grove into their own dark designs.
A microcosm of the í̶̡̨͖̠̰͓͇̞̟̉̍́͑̽̕͝n̷͉̙͉̭͍͓̝͋̎̔̀͜f̷̬͙͉̣̗̹̃̄̀̅̕͠e̸̡̺͗͋͑̈́̍̒̕͘͝s̵̰̥̮̤̹̤͐̕ţ̴̬̗̬̦̘̬̍̂̀̽̓̂͗̇̂ͅa̴̧̘̦͈̅̑̏̑̂͠t̶̡͇́̉ǐ̴̧̦̘̹̤̩̈̓̌̕o̸̳̝͍͈̖̿̄̓͌͗̽́̚͝ǹ̴͈̝̖̹̮̞̀ that had started to destroy everything she held dear.
She drove her fangs deeper, ignoring the mad cackling that had finally started to wane as she drank in what remained of the demon’s fading life essence. As his heartbeat faded, her’s only grew stronger, forcing a warmth through her body that almost made her feel alive again.
Like a spider gorging itself on a vermin until nothing remained but an empty husk, there was no need to feel remorse. No need to sympathize.
The Legion was an enemy upon which a predator could freely prey.
The arcanist released her vice grip on the satyr’s throat, letting his corpse fall limply to the ground as she straightened herself. She passed her free hand over her face, cleansing the thick, green ichor from her mouth with a seamless flicker of magic as she raked her white hair from her eyes.
And then she started to run. Towards the sounds of combat. Towards the sounds of cackling and bleating.
Towards the sounds of an infestation that needed to be purged.
It was some sort of magic. She could feel the effects of it tugging on the periphery of her mind even as the massive, horned demon tilted his head--exposing the thick muscles of his flesh and the evident jugular beneath the mass of his wild hair.
She did want to. There had not been a single waking moment since her transition that the Hunger had not gnawed relentlessly at the edges of her psyche, clawing equally at her mind and body in an endless attempt to urge the mage into action.
Even freshly fed, the Hunger didn’t leave. It became tolerable--a silent growl instead of an agonizing rumble--but it had been nearly 24 hours since she had last supped on the stores of blood she had carefully preserved.
Every splatter of spilled blood from a fallen enemy.
The film of red ichor smeared across the floor in the flagellation chamber they had just passed.
The river of gore that had poured from the massive serpent that had fallen in the river and tainted the running waters crimson.
Even in a state of exhaustion, none of it had escaped her notice--and it fueled the ever-present, silent war between her own decorum and the instinctual urges that churned and writhed like a thousand furious snakes.
The pressure of magic receded, unable to secure a hold on her mind, and Velameestra felt her dark lips curve into a smile that displayed the lengthening fangs that had started to urge her mouth apart.
“If you’re offering.”
It was a threat.
A frustrated curse had barely left the satyr’s mouth before two rapid-fire shots from Zap brought the demon to his knees--the humorous irony of the dwarf artificer’s quip not fully recognized by the arcanist as the dwarf was quickly scooped up by Tol’vas and the massive wolf propelled both him and Uther in pursuit of the charging Arthas and the rest of the satyrs.
Vel registered Elissa’s run by as well, her magenta-hued eyes flickering to the retreating form of the half-elf before the wild cackling of the dying demon drew her focus back to the thick, green blood that was dripping across his flesh and into his wild fur.
The sin’dorei have already done studies on this, she reminded herself, her eyes fixed on the fiend’s throat. About feeding on demons.
A mirthless chuff hummed in the back of her throat.
No lasting effects.
The demon’s taunt had been a mistake.
As the satyr started to fall backwards, the vampyr leapt on him, one hand still clasped around the hilt of her sword as the other grabbed his hair, wrenched his head to the side, and drove his throat into her waiting fangs.
It was like a shot of adrenaline--the thick, green ichor of the satyr’s blood burning like a drink that was too hot, but simultaneously as refreshing as water in the midst of a desert. She felt it reach her heart, spurning the organ into beating harder and harder, the cuts and scrapes in her flesh mending with the introduction of the new vitae.
What was it the satyrs had been called?
C̶o̴r̸r̶u̷p̶t̷e̸r̶s̶.̷
Ď̴̡̟̜͘e̸̥̔f̸͎̦̺͔͖́̊͝͝į̷̰̻̽̋́̂͐̏̈́̾̈̍͘l̸̡̦̪̗̹̺͇̱̝͉̻̼͕̆e̸̢̬̹͓͙̭̳̱̳̼͂̀̃͒̏̂͒͗͋̑͘̕͜ř̷̙̙͎͖̾̔͐͠ś̶̛̜̲̲͍̆̏̓̋͊̍̅͌̕͠
A p̷̪̱̟̓̉e̵̩̙̙͚̱̳͎͌͒̋̀̐̂͊̕͘s̸̯̪͔̩̤͓̫̲̅͂͗t̵̡̛̥̹̱̭͙̠̘̘̫̔̀̈̽̃̔̓͗́̂̎̚ị̸̑́̓̕l̷̼̋́̇͗̓̆̾i̴͓̯̲̭͈̩͓̞͂̑̿̀̋̈́̽̆̒ē̷̘͈͇͆͜͝ň̶͖͓̠̪̫̜̫̍̇͐̓͝ͅċ̷̠̾e̶̺̬̫͌̒̏̆̎̓͊̌ that had started to strangle and twist a grove into their own dark designs.
A microcosm of the í̶̡̨͖̠̰͓͇̞̟̉̍́͑̽̕͝n̷͉̙͉̭͍͓̝͋̎̔̀͜f̷̬͙͉̣̗̹̃̄̀̅̕͠e̸̡̺͗͋͑̈́̍̒̕͘͝s̵̰̥̮̤̹̤͐̕ţ̴̬̗̬̦̘̬̍̂̀̽̓̂͗̇̂ͅa̴̧̘̦͈̅̑̏̑̂͠t̶̡͇́̉ǐ̴̧̦̘̹̤̩̈̓̌̕o̸̳̝͍͈̖̿̄̓͌͗̽́̚͝ǹ̴͈̝̖̹̮̞̀ that had started to destroy everything she held dear.
She drove her fangs deeper, ignoring the mad cackling that had finally started to wane as she drank in what remained of the demon’s fading life essence. As his heartbeat faded, her’s only grew stronger, forcing a warmth through her body that almost made her feel alive again.
Like a spider gorging itself on a vermin until nothing remained but an empty husk, there was no need to feel remorse. No need to sympathize.
The Legion was an enemy upon which a predator could freely prey.
The arcanist released her vice grip on the satyr’s throat, letting his corpse fall limply to the ground as she straightened herself. She passed her free hand over her face, cleansing the thick, green ichor from her mouth with a seamless flicker of magic as she raked her white hair from her eyes.
And then she started to run. Towards the sounds of combat. Towards the sounds of cackling and bleating.
Towards the sounds of an infestation that needed to be purged.